Dead of Winter
by Morticia'Lovecraft
Summary: The boys travel to a small island off the coast of Maine to investigate a string of grave mutilations, colliding with a gloomy mortician and a mysterious stranger that promises to alter their lives forever. WINCEST, sam/dean. not for the faint of heart!
1. Chapter 1

"This is a _funeral home_." Veronica harshly repriminded, staring down her nose at the squirming trainee before her. "Not some absurd Gothic fantasy." She opened a drawer to her heavy mahogany desk and pulled out a huge stack of laminated papers, loosely binded together. She dropped it down on the desk. The loud _bang _made the trainee flinch. She looked near tears. "So this is what you're going to do. You're going to go take down all of those decorations. No one needs to be looking at demons and devils in the viewing room, Halloween or not. And then, you're going to read this, back to front." she tapped a manicured, delicate finger on the book. "You have half an hour. Get to it, girl." the trainee leapt up and walked up, face burning red. Veronica watched her leave. A small sigh escaped her.

She shut the door to her office and sat down, about to sign a release form for a coffin to be rented, when the phone began to ring. She answered. "Hello?"

"Veronica? There is a police officer here to see you." The secretary Vanessa said lowly on the other line. "Shall I send him in?"

"Of course." Vera hung up the phone, filled in numbers and affirmations and was signing her name when a knock came at the door. "Come in." She looked up as the door opened, and a cop walked through the door, his hat in his hand. He shut the door behind him.

"Ms Loewen?" he said. "I am officer Raegen of the Maine police department. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"About what?" she asked, putting her pen down neatly. She had been expecting this. She crossed her skirted legs and offered him to sit. He sat down, balancing his hat on his knee. He looked at her square in the face. A serious, cynical face, she found him also quietly charming. A special man, most likely.

"You've probably read in the paper about the punks that have been digging up graves?" he asked. She nodded, vaguely recalling some of those incidents. "There was three last week. This time the coffin was cracked open and a finger was missing from the corpse."

"Lovely." she said, without humour. "What are you trying to say? One of my employees have been stealing limbs from the dead?"

"Depends on what you say." he said smoothly. "There _was_ a discarded shovel found a few hundred yards away, one of yours. I presume only grave-diggers have keys to workshed?"

"I do, and some of the other staff." I held up my key ring from the desk. Ten or eleven keys were jumbled on it. "It could be anyone. Or any young hooligan that decides to bust open the shed door. Sir."

"Okay. All the coffins were from your company however... I understand that you have a joint partnership with the ownage of the cemetary?" I nodded.

"Yeah. Klausen Memorial Services. Bad name, everyone thinks it's a war museum." A ghost of a smile graced Raegan's lips. "He owns half the cemetary, and I own the other. The entire property is two acres wide; originally he owned the whole plot because Klausen is a family business."

"And Misty Lake Funeral Home is also a family business?" he asked. Raegan was taking short notes on a legal pad. I shook my head.

"No. I own it independently. It used to be a joint, tax-supported funeral home, and when the manager quit I became manager of the place, and eventually I bought it off the owner. I made a few adjustments, hired my professional crew and no one runs it but me."

"Interesting. So there is no tension between you and Klausen?" I shrugged.

"Not really. Are you saying... that Klausen has been creeping around my side of the graveyard at night, digging up my graves and mutilating them? For the sake of competition? I'm not responsible for any sort of mutilation of the deceased. Once it's under the ground it's out of my hands. Sir."

"So there's never been any competition? To see who sells more plots and coffins?"

"No. Not really. Usually we get along well when we cross each other. Which isn't often."

"I see. So, you have absolutely no idea who has been desecrating grave sites?"

"No. Nothing I can remember, anyways." Raegan stood up, putting his hat on his head. She rose up with him. They shook hands and his grip was powerful and calloused.

"Well, if you suddenly seem to remember anything," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He gave it to her. "You can reach me here. That's my office." I nodded, and threw the card down onto the table. "You don't mind if I go and question some of your diggers?" I shook my head.

"No. I doubt it is one of them, but if it is, then they should definitely be stopped. Right? Sir." Another ghost of a grin.

"Of course. Is there a number where I can reach you at?"

"My office." I held up a card that was egg-shell white with my name printed in neat letters, with the office number. Raegan took it.

"If I can't reach you here?"

"Well... then my home number, then."

"Mind if I have that as well?" his eyes twinkled momentarily and I smiled a little. I wrote it down and passed it to him. He tipped his hat and let himself out.

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I worked, and I didn't stop until Vanessa poked her head in. "Don't forget, you have a social function at seven..." I glanced up, pen posed in mid writing. I nodded.

"I haven't forgotten, Vanessa." I looked at the clock above the door. It was five thirty. I sighed, removing my reading glasses and placing them on the desk, rubbing my eyes. "God, I am dreading it." Vanessa grinned from the doorway.

"So what did that hottie cop want?" she asked. I looked up at her, eyebrow raised.

"He's my age, Nessa." I said, wrinkling my nose at the young intern. She giggled.

"He's still pretty good-looking!" I waved her off.

"Tell Ernie he's shutting down for the night. I have to get ready." I walked over to my small closet and Vanessa left, shutting the door behind her. I opened my closet. Within a sealed bag was my pressed and fresh dress I was to wear-- it was one of those things you do in small towns, I had found after moving here several years ago. Everyone-- the town doctor, the mayor, the dentist, funeral directors-- _everyone _met a few times a year and had a social function. A high-class party for small-town people. I was a New York native myself. I hated this tradition but I had learned early on it was risky to miss it.

I stepped into the employee washroom and slowly got changed, exchanging hush puppies for insanely fancy high heels, and a slim black dress with no back. I braided my hair near the side of my head, so it hung over my shoulder. I checked my watch. Six thirty. Time to get moving. I applied a little make up and then locked up my office, left the keys to the morgue with Nessa, and punched out and left.

It was mid-fall. Leaves pattered and danced on the pavement, the cool wind pushing them around my ankles. I got in my car and started it, looking up at the dark sunset. The sky had been streaked red and purple and the sun was a dying thing, fading back over the horizon, a moody orange and pink. As soon as my engine was heated up I got moving, and drove across town to the function.

------

"You sure she will be there?" Dean asked, standing defeated as Sam adjusted his tie.

"No, I'm not, but it's worth a shot. Remember the cover?"

"Yeah. Mr Daniel Macab and Mr George Gray. Morticians from New York. Tourists." Dean flashed a great big fake smile that had made hundreds of women fall in his bed.

"Right. Let's go." Sam and Dean looked immaculate, their neat black suits pressed and dry-cleaned, hair and skin clean as a thistle and the light scent of spices followed them out the motel door. They loaded into Dean's Impala, the engine roaring as they pulled out of the motel parking lot and travelled up the street towards Bucksport and Main street. The ocean seethed and bubbled a mile to the west, invisible by the close accumulation of houses. The streets were slowly emptying as night fell. It was quarter to seven.

"So, debrief me on Ms Veronica Loewen." Dean asked, turning up the AC/DC currently assaulting the radio. Sam flipped through John Winchester's journal.

"Well, it says here that Veronica's grandmother came into contact with something fifty or so years ago, something that passed through the bloodline. It looks like a witch's curse. Maybe a vampire." Sam explained. "There's something crossed out here." he touched the black, scrawled line. "Can't read it. Anyways, Loewen now owns Misty Lake Mortuary. There are two embalmers-- she's one of them-- several maintenence, janitorial and secretorial staff, none of them having any contact with anything paranormal, far as I can tell." Sam blew out some air between his teeth. "That's all it says."

"You think she's got something to do with the grave desecration?" Dean asked, turning towards the town hall. A light rain began to fall. "Damn Maine weather... Castle Rock blows." he huffed. "I'm gonna have to hit every casino in town after this. We won't have enough to get back to the mainland." he was still grumbling as he entered the packed parking lot. Sam adjusted his tie, slightly nervous.

"Man, I've got a bad feeling about this one." he said. Dean shut off the car and the two listened to the rain for a few seconds as it came down heavier and heavier, quite quickly. "What do you think it is?"

"Me? Well, if you want my professional opinion, I would say it's a bunch of punks looking for a rush just before Halloween. But the body mutilation, that's a different story. A vampire would just take the body. A ghost wouldn't bother the dead. A witch... well, I don't know what use it would have with a finger. There's no evidence of a demon. Maybe it's a desperate necrophiliac."

"Great." Sam huffed. "Excellent speculation. Let's get this over with."

"Yes sir!" They both got out and hurried to the accumulating crowd outside. Dean and Sam had obtained tickets from the council building. They cost fifty-four dollars each, quite a pinch to their savings. "So, how old is this Veronica?" Dean asked mischeviously as they waited in line.

"She's almost forty."

"Jesus! She's almost a corpse herself!" Sam elbowed him roughly.

"Shut up, Dean." he grumbled. They handed the tickets to the doorman, and then their hearts nearly stopped as the tall man looked through a list on a clipboard.

"Names?"

"We just gave you the tickets!" Dean retorted.

"I don't care. Names."

"Daniel Macab. This is my business partner, George Gray. We're from NYC." Dean flashed his million-dollar grin. The man found their names.

"Right. Have a good time, boys."

The two brothers entered the town hall. The chairs had been pushed to the back, folded up neatly. A buffet lined one side, filled with steaming food. An open bar lined the other. A live band was playing twangy acoustic music. There must have been a hundred and twenty people there, dressed formally and to the top. They huddled in groups, drinking champagne. The building was filled with talk, arguments, laughter and discussion. A beautiful woman was being courted by an elderly man in one corner, a heavy gold watch glinting off one hairy wrist. Dean and Sam stood awkwardly for a moment.

"How will we find her?" Dean asked urgently.

"Here." Sam reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small photograph. "Raegan gave it to me." It was a picture clipped from a newspaper, the article from which it came remaining a mystery. "It was taken last year." It was a full colour photo, rare thing. Must have been a front page thing. Dean looked at Veronica Loewen. The woman appeared tall and slender, with a pale, angular face with very stern, serious dark eyes. Her dark hair was down, curled artificially, and grey hair was beginning to streak through it. She was wearing a white blouse with a black, feminine dinner coat over it. A cigarette was jutting out of two long fingers and her razor-thin lips were staring down whoever was behind the camera. There were several police officers standing near her, and yellow tape. Behind the people was a building, and Dean could faintly make out _Misty Lake Mortuary_.

"Taken last year, eh?" Dean handed the flimsy picture back to Sam, who repocketed it. "Well, I'll hit the bar. She might come for a drink."

"I'll find Raegan. And don't get drunk!" Sam called after his brother, who didn't answer. Sam slipped into the crowd and began to search for the mysterious Veronica Loewen.

It was Dean who found her first. He had been right; she was at the bar. She was standing facing him, talking to another man, who was in a black pressed suit with a wine-red undershirt. A glass of hard scotch was in one hand and she didn't really appear to be concentrating on what the man was saying. Dean's hand slipped into his inside coat and found his fake FBI identification. He slipped past that, grabbed his wallet, and walked right inbetween them.

"Barkeep! I'll have a hard scotch on the rocks!" he said stoutly, sliding ten dollars across the mahagony counter. The bartender, an old fat man, began to make his drink immediately. He looked to the man who had been talking to Veronica, who was staring at him with scrutiny in his rat-eye gaze. He was good-looking, but looked very shifty. Cunning, almost. He looked to Veronica, who was walking away.

"Nice going, jackass." the man grumbled, before walking away angrily. Dean smirked and took his drink, and caught up with Veronica.

"Excuse me!" he leapt in front of her and she stared at him, eyebrow raised.

"Yes? Do I know you?" her voice was cultured, and deep, pleasantly husky. It had a foreign sound to it, and a barely noticible tinge of European accent. She also sounded very annoyed. Smoothly, without missing a beat, Dean pulled out his FBI identification and her eyes widened.

"Veronica Loewen?" She nodded. "I'm agent Taylor." he put his ID away. "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"If it's about the graveyard, I've already talked to the FBI, CIA and the state police and local police." she replied, sounding vastly irritated now. She sipped her scotch and swallowed without a wince. Dean was reminded of an alcoholic.

"Then you won't mind going over it again." he said, smiling.

"Fine."

"Where were you the night of October 19th, 2006?" he asked, referring to two weeks back, when the graves were first desecrated. She furrowed her brow, thinking.

"I was visiting my father in the Bentley Old Folk's Haven." she said. "I signed in. You can go check if you want."

"Did you pass by the particular cemetary that was violated that evening?"

"No."

"Do you remember any sort of black-outs, fainting spells or sudden memory loss that isn't normal to your standard biological chemistry?" he was spewing out words he had heard Sam use, but Veronica was following along just fine.

"No. I went home, did some work, had a shower, went to bed."

"You have a very accurate memory."

"Same routine I do every night." she replied irritably. "Anything else?"

"Yes, one more thing-- if me and my partner stopped by tomorrow, would it be possible to retrieve your employee records."

"Of course. Won't be a problem. Now excuse me." she walked away, melting into the crowd. Dean watched her go. _She's got a nice ass for a forty year old_. He thought cheerfully. However, despite his thoughts, he was confused and frustrated. The woman had given little to no information. He didn't particularly sense anything wrong with her. She appeared to be your average, middle-aged, gloomy mortician. He turned around and almost bumped heads with Sam.

"You find her?" he asked. "I can't. This girl keeps following me." he spied a look over his shoulder into the crowd. Dean smirked.

"Yeah, I found her."

"Well? Tell me about her!"

"Real nice ass. Good legs too, far as I could tell. Boobs, eh... not so much. She's got this whole Queen of the Undead thing going down... she's probably got a kink--" Sam glared at him.

"You idiot, did you question her?" he snapped. Dean gulped his drink down in one blast and shook himself. He nodded as the fire spread through his body.

"Yeah. She knows nothing, or she just didn't tell me. She doesn't have any symptoms of possession, then and now. We have to go to Misty Lake Mortuary tomorrow to pick up the employee records." He checked his watch. It was eight-thirty. "Let's go find Raegan."

"Already did." Sam pointed past Dean, who turned around. The cop was talking to Veronica, who was cracking a razor-thin smile. The brothers raised eyebrows.

"Jeez, Raegan." Dean tsked. "Going for the Corpse Bride." he guffawed and Sam elbowed him again. "Ah, let's just leave 'em to it. Let's hit that graveyard." Sam sighed and followed his older, shorter brother out through the side exit. The rain had stopped, and they splashed through the puddles, inhaling the deep scents of darkness and water.

"Beautiful night." Sam remarked, glancing up at the sky. The clouds had cleared and the stars shimmered in the sky. "Maine really is a gorgeous province."

"Yeah, yeah, get in here you little romantic." Sam threw Dean a dirty look, who scoffed. "Bitch."

"Jerk!" The brothers slid into the Impala bickering, and Dean shot out of the parking lot and towards Klausen and Loewen Cemetary, shovels and pickaxes clinking in the backseat.

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review plz.


	2. Chapter 2

disclaimer: i do not own anything or anyone from Supernatural. They belong to their respectful creators. Although i wouldn't mind owning Sam.

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The road was winding and long, and the foilage was crumbling in themselves, floating from the towering trees, one purple leaf decorating the man's heavy black coat. His breath was visible white mist in the air. His hair was soft, dirty blonde, turning grey, swiped back from his high forehead. His handsome face was lined with the story of whiskey, and his large, bright eyes were good-natured but extremely wary. He walked with a prominent limp and used a heavy black cane for support, his large hand clasping the silver knob on top of it tightly. His jeans swished together loudly and his joints were aching from the bone-settling autumn chill. His other hand was deep in his pocket, clasping the picture he had cut from the newspaper last year. It had taken him an entire twelve months to get to Little Tall Island, and he could feel the black, evil energy vibrating through his footsteps. This place was cursed, it had the stench of blood and demons all over it. He turned right on the path, glancing at the sign, stopping for a moment.

_Little Tall Island--- _

The town, then. He headed in that direction, as dawn slowly crept nearer through the trees. He hobbled along towards the unsuspecting town still drowsy in the fading night.

--------------------

As the man in the heavy coat was heading towards Little Tall central town, Veronica was just stepping out of the shower. She wrapped her long hair up in a beige towel and proceeded to shave her legs and tweeze her eyebrows. She got the wax machine going, laying strips out for her upper lip. She headed into the kitchen, where her ancient coffee maker was slowly, almost pathetically, pissing out her coffee. She found her oversized mug on top of some papers at the small kitchen table. It had left a coffee ring around some documents and she cursed mildly, opening the curtains. She could see the ocean from where she was. It lapped to the shore gently, mellow in the early light. The sun was rising. It was always a spectacular sight to see.

There was a red tinge around the sun. Her mother had told her it meant company was along the way, and dangerous one at that. Veronica had been taught to believe in witchcraft, but she had become to accustomed to death to care. She turned from the window and poured herself her coffee, preparing to relax. She only had one day off a week-- Wednesday, the least likely day for people to die, it seemed. Halloween was five days away.

Veronica was rattling around in her bedroom when the phone began to ring in the kitchen. She groaned. Llwelleyn must have been having trouble already. Llwellyn was a nice kid, just graduated from the Canadian College of Funeral Director's and was Veronica's new bitch, as Vanessa often joked. He had came across the border looking for better work and ended up here. He always called on her day off, panicking about something. He didn't have the nerves for the job. She had taken him to see on his first day an embalming of a road accident victim. Vincent Braun had been doing the work, and Llewellyn had damn near puked on the corpse.

She trundled over to the phone and answered. "Hello."

"_Vera?" _Yes, it was Llewellyn.

"Yes, Llewellyn."

_"There are two feds here. They want the employee records."_

"Shit!" Veronica groaned. She had completely forgotten. "Well, don't give it to them until I get there. Understand?"

"_Okay."_ Veronica abruptly hung up the phone and walked back to her room, pulling on an expensive black skirt and a crimson silk blouse. Rolling up the sleeves, she searched for an elastic to put her hair up in. She tied it in a loose chignon at the top of her head and grabbed her keys, carrying her mug of coffee to the car and slamming into it. She pulled out of the driveway, cranking the radio up hardcore. April Wine-- _Sign of the Gypsy Queen._ She turned it up to distortion point. She adored rock n roll. Lovely music, she always said. She drove to her establishment and parked in the employee's parking. The parking lot was vacant except for the janitor's Honda (Mike, was his name), Vanessa's SUV, and Llewellyn's Mercedes. And an Impala, that she hadn't seen before. She presumed it to be the feds.

She collected her purse and turned off the car, getting out and stomping to the door. She hated coming in on her day off-- it was her one day of the week where she could kick back, crack open a beer and smoke a pack of cigarettes, picking away at the novel she had been writing for almost three years now. During college she had published a few short stories and novellas in mystery and horror magazines, one doing so well that it earned her almost seven thousand dollars and Stephen King had complimented it himself-- a prestigious honour that had actually made her squeal with joy and shock at that tender young age. She had idolized King through college and he was her favorite stormy-night author.

They were already in her office, another thing that irked the shit out of her. She stepped through and looked at Llewellyn, who was nervously adjusting his spectacles and looked very agitated. Agent Taylor and another man she hadn't met yet were sitting down in the chairs across from her desk. Ellyn had on the other side, and stood up abruptly when she entered, as if being caught guilty sitting in her chair.

"Good morning." she said, very curtly. She was still carrying her coffee. "You are?" she looked directly at the man next to Taylor, who flashed his ID.

"Agent Brodsky. Taylor's partner." he spoke in a much more professional manner then his partner. Veronia seated herself behind her desk.

"You came for the employee records?" They both nodded. "Okay. Keys, please." Llewellyn hastily scrambled in his pockets for a moment, flushing. He put them in her hand and she unlocked one of the drawers of her huge desk. She pulled out a blue file folder with several papers inside. "How far back?" she asked.

"Just in the past two or three years." Brodsky said calmly. She pulled out another two folders and slid them across the desk towards them.

"There. When can I have them back?"

"By early evening tomorrow, if that's okay." Brodsky promised. She nodded. The two stood up, thanked her for her time, shook Ellyn's hand and then left, shutting the door behind them. Ellyn immediately flew into apologies.

"I'm so sorry, Vera, I didn't know what to do, should I have--" she held up a hand and he stopped immediately.

"Don't worry about it. You did the right thing." she relocked the drawer and handed the keys back to him. He pocketed them hastily, but not before dropping them on the floor. "Ellyn." he looked at her, half stood up. "Relax, boy. Don't get so tense. You're here to help society, not amuse it." he blushed as red as a tomato. The phone rang on the desk and Veronica picked it up. Vanessa exclaimed surprise at her boss being in so early on her day off. Veronica abruptly asked her what the matter was. There was a client waiting downstairs.

"Llewellyn can take it." Veronica said, eyeing the young man. "Send them in immediately." She hung up on Nessa and collected her purse and coffee. "Have a good day, Ellyn. If you have anymore trouble, don't hesitate to call me." she explained, letting herself out, knowing perfectly well that Ellyn would rather walk on coals then call his boss twice in the same day.

She left through the back exit, lighting a cigarette. She stayed still for a moment. It was an absurdly warm morning, strange for the cold Maine weather that lasted year round. Vera liked the cold. It kept her moving. She was just about to head off to her car when she heard mis-matched footsteps. She looked to the right and saw a man she had never seen before walking towards her. He was wearing a heavy black coat and had a bad limp. He was perhaps a year or so older then her, and walked with a cane. He was coming towards her, only about a hundred yards away, coming off the sidewalk from Gertrude avenue. She pretended not to see him and started to walk away.

She started her car and pulled out. She took a glance back before she started to head home. The strange, limping man was now standing at the side of the building, watching. An odd, intense chill rattled her, and she sped out faster then she usually did.

-----------------

Dean tossed the last paper on the bed before him, groaning in frustration. His brother was rattling around in the washroom, the stall door to the shower slamming shut. His mind wondered to his brother and the shower. Images appeared and he shook his head violently, an icy, wet feeling of disgust churning in his stomach. Maybe he was getting delirious, with this screwed-up weather and frustrating graveyards. Sam and him had hit the graveyard but had not found a single thing-- no signs, no marks, no spirits, nothing. Nadda. Zip. Zero. Nothing showed up on the detector. It was just your average graveyard that kept getting desecrated by unknown assailants.

"Yo, Sammy!" he yelled.

"What?" Sam's voice was muffled. He stepped out, zipping the fly of his jeans up, his shirt in the other hand. Dean forced himself not to look at him.

"Maybe we should just forget this graveyard bull. I mean, it's gotta be a bunch of punks, ya know, the bad apples small towns get. It is almost Halloween." he said, collecting all the papers and sorting them back into their proper folders.

"Yeah, but dad's journal mentions Veronica and her grandmother. And something touched them. The cemetary cannot be just a coincidence."

"Oh yeah? How so?"

"I did a little research while you were at the bar. Gambling." Sam said prudishly. Dean rolled his eyes. "Ever since Veronica Loewen moved here, approximately ten years ago, there was a murder around this time." Dean sat up, interest peaked. "I'm not clear on the details, Raegan's working on it."

"You think Loewen's got something to do with this? Say, maybe we're dealing with a real good actress. Or a witch that can hide herself. Maybe she's just psychotic. If that's the case, it's not our problem. Let Raegan handle it."

"Well, we won't know until we find out." Sam sat down on the bed next to Dean, who got a look at his younger brother's extremely well-formed body. He had certainly put the work to him. "What?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"They all occured on the shoreline. They were drowned, and some of them were mutilated beforehand."

"So that's ten people that get killed on ten Halloweens and no cops can figure it out?" Dean scoffed. "Sounds like a freakin' serial killer thing, Sammy."

"We need to talk to Veronica again, tomorrow."

"What do we do tonight?" Dean asked, pulling off his socks.

"We're going to stake out the cemetary." Dean laughed.

"Sounds like a plan!" he got his boots on (minus one sock) and his jacket, Sam following suit. "But we need some food. Let's hit a burger joint, first."

-----------------------

Veronica was sitting in her kitchen, reading a book and drinking tea, when the phone began to ring. It had been ringing off the hook all day-- first her sister in Miami was calling as soon as she walked back in the door; then her father, then her aunt, then one of her friend's asking her if she was interested in going out for dinner. Vera had politely declined Lacey's offer, preffering to sit at home. And now the phone was ringing again. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly five thirty. There was some left over pizza in the fridge, and a few beers... the phone brought her out of her thoughts, and she picked it up. "Hello?"

"_Ms Loewen? It's officer Raegan._" Vera felt herself smile a little. Raegan was very charming and intelligent, in a very flattering way. She liked him. She didn't mind being interogated by him-- much more better then those young feds that set off the warning bells to ring in her head.

"Hello officer. Can I help you?" she got up, grabbing a said beer from the fridge and twisting off the cap.

"_I was wondering if I could ask you a few more questions._" he explained. _"Just shortly."_

"Alright. Where?" Vera smiled a little. "At the station?"

"_No, let's make this a friendly meeting. How about we go for dinner?" _Vera smiled again, leaning against the fridge and closing it.

"Sure, officer. Sounds like a plan. Sir."

"_Great. How about Smith and Jones', six o clock?"_

"Alright. I will be there." Smith and Jones' was the most expensive restaurant in this place-- escargot platter extrodinaire, pot-roasted baby veal cutlets, Italian pasta sprinkled with blue cheese... Vera had not been there in a long time although she could certainly afford it, but now she was going to be dining with a cop there. She walked to her room to get ready. The place was formal but not that formal-- it was a tourist spot for sure. She pulled on pantyhose, a knee-length skirt and a black halter top. She turned in the mirror and looked at her back, frowning a little.

When she had been eighteen, she had gotten extremely drunk and thought that at the time it would be an awesome idea to get a tattoo on her back before entering college. She meant just to get a small one but since her mega-rich boyfriend at the time was also there and very drunk she got a set of angel wings that took up her whole back. They were very artistic, not corny or immature at all, done to look like those pictures of angels in churches. She didn't mind exposing them in public, even at her age-- every now and then she went and got it re-inked. She adored the wings, even though she had cried about them at first. She wondered how Raegan was going to like them.

She did her hair in a large, wavy curls and used a little makeup, before having a glass of wine. She had forgot to ask if he was coming to get her or not. Probably not. She stood near the window. She felt like she was twenty again, smiling in that quiet way she always had over men. She felt good and young again, despite the fact she was only 36. She watched the sun set slowly, while the limping man watched the same view from the shoreline, the water lapping at his worn black shoes.

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plz review and comment on my stories, it gives me inspiration! And i need reliable critique, as well. until next time.


	3. Chapter 3

A very cold wind was starting to blow, as Vera stepped out of the car and headed towards the entrance of Smith and Jones'. She hadn't been here in a long time. She stepped inside and gave the name, Raegan and Loewen, to the waiter by the entrance to the dining room. He nodded and told her to come with him. He led her to a booth near the back, that had a spectacular window view of the ocean. The balcony patio was closed for the season, tables and chairs pushed to the side, folded and packaged in white tarp neatly. She had thrown on a loose black shirt over her halter for personal reasons, one part of the collar hanging over her shoulder and slightly down her arm. She was idly tapping her cigarette package, gazing at the water as if hypnotized. She glanced at her watch. Six o five. Raegan was late. She pursed her lips and ordered a white russian from the same waiter.

As soon as the waiter put down her drink and she was picking it up, Raegan walked into the dining room. He pointed her out to the waitress, and she led him over. He was still in his uniform, sans hat and wearing a heavy brown coat, covering his holster and mace. He sat himself down. "Sorry, Ms Loewen. I was a little held up on the way here." He ordered a beer.

"So. What did you have to ask me? Sir." she took a sip of her drink.

"Let me start off by saying you look great tonight." he replied, his expression rather unreadable.

"Thank you." she smiled, flushing pleasantly. She did not recieve many compliments on the way she looked and was pleased by his words.

"Also, I have a rather... odd question to ask you."

"What would that be?" He opened his mouth and the waiter returned. Veronica, a die hard vegitarian, ordered a house salad with raspberry vinagrette dressing with escargot to top it all off. Raegan got some sort of steak, garlic bread dinner thing. For the first, Vera started to feel a little suspicious. An odd question? Why had he wanted to meet for dinner? She sipped her drink.

"It's rather hard to explain. And I would like you to hear me out. The boys themselves would rather be here to say it, but they're... busy. So please just sit and listen."

"Okay."

"Remember those feds? Taylor and Brodsky?" Vera nodded. "They are not federal agents."

"What do you mean? Who are they then?"

"They're hunters."

"Of what? Undercover cop shit, what?"

"They hunt... demons. Ghosts. Things like that." Vera stared at him for a moment and then shifted in her seat. Raegan held up a hand.

"Trust me, I had a hard believing it too. Damn near through them into the county jail for fraud and imitating a police officer. But, they proved me wrong, and I seen things."

"Ghosts?" she echoed. "I believe in that." she said. Raegan looked relieved. A little. "I see things sometimes, in the basement. Where we do our embalmings. Sometimes I do them, when Llewellyn is directing a funeral. You hear things. Voices calling your name, sometimes you hear people crying. You see shadows in the corners, footsteps on the stairs, cold fingers touching your neck."

"So--"

"But hunting them? Now _that _sounds ludicrous."

"Listen. Damn, Ms Loewen, maybe we should just wait until the boys get here. They could explain this to you. I'm still confused of it myself. I asked you here tonight 'cause I was hoping you would help us out."

"Who are they boys? What help?"

"Sam and Dean Winchester. They need your help saving this island."

----------------------

"Think they'll be here soon?" Dean asked, kicking another rock in boredom. Sam was sitting in the car with the door open, typing away on his laptop. "It's almost nine." he said more to himself, looking up at the cloudless sky. The moon was shining down on them, illuminating everything in bright white light that wasn't overwhelmed by the Impala's yellow headlights. The Eagles sung 'Hotel California' from the radio dimly. The cemetary gates were thrown open about two hundred yards away. A pile of shovels and pick-axes rested on the ground before them. Graves, tombs and crypts spanned far and wide in the dark. It was absurdly dark and silent, except for the occasional cries of ravens and crows. A little late for them, he thought, feeling a little creeped out. He sat in the car with Sam.

"Depends if Veronica decides to even believe him." Sam said, typing in something on the laptop.

"What you looking up?"

"The history of Little Tall Island. Specifically, the morticians who lived here."

"Dude, Sammy, Loewen moved her from New York ten years ago."

"Yeah, but when I traced the Loewen family tree, I found out ten generations of her family lived here, before her mother moved to New York city to start a new life with the Russian-American fisherman she met. Tilda Loewen died when Veronica was eleven in a drowning accident. Her father, Chris, disappeared almost right after. She lived with her grandmother in Castle Rock. Then, when she was seventeen she went back to New York, went to college, and moved here when she was 26."

"Wow. You would make one hell of a stalker." Sam glared at him.

"Don't you understand, Dean? Her roots go back here for years! Why did she come back? Don't you think it's a little suspicious that her mother drowned, and all of these people drowned here?"

"Yeah, but when did her mom die?"

"...January. Damn."

"So maybe the murders are totally unrelated. What else did you find out?"

"Just Veronica's great-grandfather was the only mortician here. It says here, that he died from a blood infection. He caught it from a body he was embalming."

"When?"

"October 31st, 1926." The two looked at each other.

"Raegan's bringing her here, tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." A pair of headlights approached the cemetary, and the boys saw Raegan's cruiser rolling into the gravel driveway. Sam could distinctly make out Veronica Loewen in the passenger seat, staring down the Impala. They came and parked right next to them, and the brother's got out if the Impala as the mortician and cop climbed out.

"Boys." Raegan tipped his hat.

"Hey." They replied. Veronica came around and stood next to Raegan. It was quiet for a moment.

"Nice to see everyone again," Dean said, "But let's get down to business."

"I told her what the plan was. I didn't explain."

"That's alright. Ms Loewen, would you mind if we asked you a few more questions?"

"Explain to me about this demon hunting, first."

"Well... too make a long story short, ghosts and demons are real. Most of the time, they're vengeful and confused. Me and my brother Sammy, we hunt them, to stop them from hurting the living. That's pretty much it."

"How vague." she lit a cigarette.

"Yeah, well, that's how I roll. Anyways, Sam, continue."

"Ms Loewen, we need you to give us the details on your great-grandfather's death." Sam said, stepping forward. "That is, if you remember." Veronica frowned, her brow furrowing.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It has a lot to do with this cemetary, I think." Sam replied. "Please?" Veronica leaned against the car and surveyed the three men watching her. She considered the fact that they were crazy. Then again, she would be a hypocrite. Her mother had practiced the craft, same with her grandmother and her great-grandmother, and probably her great-great-grandmother too. She knew ghosts were real, and the devil really did roost in hell.

"He was bitten." she said at last. "We don't know how, why, or who, but he was bitten on the wrist. He tried to hide it from my great-grandmother, but she found out and tried to..." she shook her head.

"What?" Sam gently pressed, stepping nearer. "Please, Ms Loewen, we really need to know."

"...She tried to cast a spell, to stop the infection from spreading to his heart. It didn't work... he bit her too. She died several months later, giving birth to my grandmother. My great-grandfather died the night he bit her. That's all I know."

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

"Ms Loewen..." Dean began slowly. He looked back to Veronica. "Have you ever heard of people going missing around here? Despite being mutilated and drowned every Halloween?" he dropped that last line in almost casually.

"Yeah. There's always a few tourists that go missing. Most of the time they're the younger kids, who probably drowned while swimming around drunk in the ocean. We usually find those bodies. But, sometimes, people do go missing. We never find their bodies."

"This has been going on for ten years, since you moved back here?"

"Yes."

"Ms Loewen, would it be possible if you could find out _who_ bit your great-grandfather?" Sam asked, hopefully. She snorted.

"No. He used to work for the Klausen's, ya know. Back then they were partners. But it burned down, taking all the records with it, in 1941, and then it was rebuilt."

"Damn." Sam was quiet for a moment. He desperately wanted to ask the question on the tip of his tongue, but Veronica looked wary and uncomfortable. She must have thought they were absolutely insane.

"You're trying to say a dead body bit my great-grandfather?" she asked. They nodded.

"Do you still practice witchcraft?" Dean asked. She stared at him incredulously.

"I watched my mother and grandmother drive themselves insane with that. I don't touch it."

"Vera, do you think you know what's going on here?" Raegan asked. Veronica was silent for a long moment, and then nodded slowly.

"Have you guys ever heard of... vampires?"

-----------


End file.
